


Wings

by lando_cal_rice_ian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bullying, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Islamophobia, Minor Original Character(s), Muslim Character, Violence, warnings as follows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 13:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lando_cal_rice_ian/pseuds/lando_cal_rice_ian
Summary: The wind catches one end of the hijab before the stranger does too. Let the moon be peaceful; he would not.[ nightwing saves the hijabi reader, a fellow detective, from being harrassed ]





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

> TUMBLR REQUEST: Hi, I just read your fic with the muslim reader and I am SO happy because I have never seen a fic with a muslim reader! Also, do you mind writing dick grayson/nightwing x muslim!reader where they both meet when nightwing saves her from being harassed for wearing hijab??? It really means alot, so thankyou!!!❤💖❤💖 - ANON
> 
> WARNINGS: violence ! please be warned that there is also domestic abuse involved ! prejudice ! ignorance ! islamophobia ! 
> 
> and, because it’s me writing, a shit ton of swearing
> 
>   
note: v. v. v. long (over 7900 words apparently... and i oop—).   
minor OCs added for plot & character development (be warned... bill f*cking sucks).  
the reader is also a strong character. i might have fleshed her out a little too much, but i wanted to do the opposite of of what i was doing with you, always you. i also wanted dick to / support / her in ignorant situations, not to save her (though nightwing will do that in a more violent event).
> 
> thank you for reading, my loves. xx

**RE-WRITTEN  
**in Apr 2020

**u n e d i t e d**

* * *

Shouts woke you before Azaan. Still dark, there was little to see, but what quiet you’d grown accustomed to in the hours before dawn grew more disturbed as a front door out in the corridor slammed shut. Time shone as red digits, the alarm clock a blur on the nightstand; it crawled closer to Fajr as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

“Fuck you!” Louder, the male voice came muffled now from the corridor. “Fuck you! I’m done!” 

“Fuck_ you_,” you muttered into the dark. _Don’t come back. _

Retreating footsteps, each a stomp, stole from you the last ounce of sleep you’d had left. You listened now, waiting for peace to follow, or, god forbid, more trouble to brew; but all that you heard were the soft sobs of a woman still in the corridor (god, these walls were _thin_), and then the gentle opening and closing of a door. 

When the Azaan played on your phone, there was an uneasiness in the air. Even as you made wudu, and retrieved a hijab from your closet, it followed you onto the prayer mat. Yelling had never been an oddity — your parents did it, your siblings did it, your friends did it; but arguments had been contained, and those you’d witnessed or been a part of at home had never been quite so serious as what you’d begun to hear in Gotham. Of course, your apartment complex was nice enough — your parents would have fainted had you moved in anywhere near The Narrows. But trouble was trouble, and everyone had them. Some of your neighbours sure as hell did. 

You looked towards the Qibla. 

Even you did, too. 

* * *

It was bright in the precinct. Even in the bathroom. White, stark and emotionless; if it weren’t for the soft lilac of your hijab, there would be no colour under these fluorescent lights. 

Wisps of hair had escaped, now curled from the summer heat. You pushed them back under, adjusted the fabric, re-pinned it in place. And practiced a smile. 

Years after joining as a detective, it was still difficult to remain unperturbed, here where some followed like shadows unwanted, sharing ‘jokes’ just as galling. Hijab or no hijab, you weren’t meek much; they heard their fair share of jokes at their expense: messy divorces, suspensions, awkward encounters with vigilantes; the others weren’t quite as good at deflecting them as you were wont to. 

One shadow was waiting when you returned to your desk. “[Y/N]!” Space around Bill Hale tended to feel claustrophobic; his voice took a lot of it up, loud, demanding of attention, pressing. “What you got hidden under there today?” 

Accustomed (though never not exasperated) to his ‘jokes’, you sat down and, logging back in to continue with a report, muttered, “Your ex-wife.” 

“Ugh.” The topic of an ex-wife (one, two, or three) tended to end in either Bill leaving in a huff, or jumping into long-winded complaints about his three divorce processes. Depending on the mood. It just so happened to favour the latter, today. 

Divorce was an expense, you were _aware_, so when Bill began to bitch about it you kind of just tuned out. Bored of both the unfinished report and Bill’s unsolicited rambles (his wives were far nicer than the she-demons he tended to paint them as during these rants), you glanced up to watch another detective pass by — Dick Grayson, files from his open case in hand. 

Usually, he’d say good morning or at least smile, but he seemed to be in a rush today. Under the harsh white light his scars were evident, scattered across his knuckles among cuts too fresh to not be suspect. 

He didn’t seem like a violent man; but whenever cuts or bruises not seen before appeared, ones he couldn’t hide, you and some other officers would share wild theories over coffee. Not that anyone believed he was a bad cop or anything — but everyone had secrets. 

“Bill.” His voice had become too much now that you were again conscious of it. “I have reports to finish. Please go annoy Hafez.” 

“Hafez banned me from his desk.” 

You smiled, a breath of laughter answering him, soon followed by a murmured, “That’s a thing? Can I?” 

Bill stood from the edge of your desk, mood sour as if he were a child. He grumbled, “You two are so Jihadi.” 

It slipped, the “Fuck you,” swift, loud enough for nearby officers to turn in interest. Bill’s face faltered just a smidge — the irritated sight a satisfaction you found yourself cherishing, even as you said softly, “Like you even know what _j__ihad _really means. Bye, Bill.” 

His retreating footsteps were a blessing. Not that reports were much fun, but working beat absorbing his ignorant remarks for much longer. 

Hours passed. Hafez brought over lunch, Captain Dao emerged from his office to put to rest the rumours of how Penguin pranked him that weekend. Then, come late afternoon, Dick appeared back in the precinct. He walked as if in a trance, his usual cheer darkened by a frown. 

His new case was ugly, you’d heard. 

Gotham was one of the cities your parents had _begged _you to not move to, with its crime rates, and colourful criminals (especially because your job _was _to arrest them). 

He was passing by when your phone came alive, the Azaan a little louder than usual. Bill, sitting at his nearby desk, called out with a laugh, “Oh god. We’re supposed to protect people from terrorists. Not have one in our ranks.” 

One of his most tasteless gags. If your eyes could detach themselves from their sockets, the violence with which you rolled them would surely have sent them across the desk. 

Without a beat missed, Dick interjected, “I agree. Get the fuck out then, Bill.” 

Just as casually as he had uttered it, Dick left to sit at his desk, leaving his words to hang in the air. 

Bill sat in silence for longer than normal. You, in a turn of events, were left equally as speechless; but, unlike him, didn’t avoid Dick — in fact, after returning from praying Asr, he became of far more interest than reports. 

He sat sifting through papers and clicking through his computer, and you noticed then, for the first time in years, how he never quite hunched — Hafez was the huncher in the precinct, he’d write and read with his face close to his desk in deep concentration, and even you, at times, would do the same. Dick, however, had a poise you’d never realised before. 

You’d never heard him snap much, either. Dick had always been kind to you. Hence why your theories about his scars tended to only ever be farfetched — just bizarre jokes to laugh over together. 

Now, for just a flicker of a moment, you wondered what a kind man could be capable of. 

* * *

Weeds sprung from cracks in the sidewalk, dried and dead under the sun. In The Palisades, all was green and beautiful, opulent wherever he turned. In the days, he, as a child, would run around Bruce’s manor, basking in the gardens made emerald by reflected sunlight; and in the nights, the dark hid quite well the dirt of The Narrows — and his shadow, flitting across rooftops, cape caught in the wind. 

Dick didn’t stir when someone sat beside him on the curb. He watched the people bustle inside the taped-off section, made into a blur, a sea that parted only when evidence began to be moved. 

“It’s over,” said the figure at his side. A soft, female voice. 

The sidewalk was warmed under the sun’s heat, and Dick focused on that through his clothes. He’d never felt at home in The Palisades, never quite free in its gilded cage. In the glitter and shine he and his brothers and Bruce had their own lies. He carried those lies even now. 

“This time. Yeah.” Green, there was fabric around her head that he could see in his peripheral vision. He realised who it was — you. 

“I know we’re not supposed to trust them but...” Your hijab was dark, like leaves in the night. “If it wasn’t for the Bat, what if—” The next words might have felt like an insult. Dick knew them even left unspoken. 

The blue of his irises were warm, even as he quelled a secret frustration at the mention of his old guardian. He exhaled, long and deep, through his nose. 

“It wasn’t the Bat.” His knuckles throbbed from punches he’d thrown a night prior to now. He’d held back, despite the torrent of wroth that drove his fists into the traffickers’ faces. Hands in his jacket pockets, his bruises went unnoticed. 

A bird pecked at the asphalt, chirps drawing his interest. It searched and searched, but there was little sustenance to be found. What worms had hidden here were now gone, left to rot in cells. Dick scraped his shoe against the asphalt, and the bird took wing. His gaze followed it until all he could see was the blue expanse, and he wondered if Bruce felt the same when he had sent Dick away. 

“I... Sorry. One of his associates then?” 

Dick smiled, a slight upturn of his mouth’s corner. A secretive expression, one even he was aware you — a detective — would note. But his tension eased, the tone of your apology was as warm as the sun. “Maybe.” 

He’d been called a sidekick all his life. Associate didn’t sound quite so bad. Even if he was no longer with Bruce. 

You made to speak, but a man approached, rubbing at his beard with a thoughtful silence. He attempted to brighten at the sight of you, faltered a little, then sat. 

“Samira left your lunch at the precinct.” You shoved the box into his hands with a smile. The air lightened just a little. 

“If it weren’t for my wife, I tell you...” Hafez shook the container, grinning. “I’d be a goner.” 

He soon left, unable to remain in the gloom of the area, despite the summer’s shine. 

Dick breathed in the scent of the street, but found no comfort from it. Save for the fleeting feeling of your knee brushing his, he felt alone. 

“I better head back.” You stood, brushing the dirt from your pants. Dick shifted, but did not look up, gaze still fixed on where he’d almost lost his mercy. “Congratulations, Dick.” He felt your hand at his shoulder. “You’ve saved so many lives. God bless you.” 

He turned to answer, though he didn’t know what to say, but you’d started towards your car. As you grew further, so did the green. And Dick didn’t feel quite so warm anymore. 

* * *

Weekends were languid, time slowed in the heat. A breeze rose in the night, just a breath, but present enough to disturb the flow of your abaya. 

The trickle of people out of the mosque grew distant, the bottoms of your sneakers dragging against the sidewalk further and further from them. 

You loved the mosque here — it unwound tensions you carried outside its doors; the sole place you could shed harsh realities of the world and lose yourself in spiritual bliss. 

Chaos had no end. Even at home there was little peace, whatever doses of it could be found came and went in a blink, and that night was no different: your floor had one asshole, just the one, but he was more than enough to drive you up the wall. He’d left for a while, after one of many fall-outs with his girlfriend, but God was testing you, because the fiendish ex was back. 

Chaz, his name was, had a habit of smoking out in the corridor. Two doors down, the stench of cigarettes lingered in the air, at times it felt even as if it wafted through cracks and into your apartment — much like his shouts, and the vibrations of a far wall that sounded too much like punches, slaps, to not feel suspicious. 

And of course, he was there now, leaning against the doorframe and puffing out a cloud. He glanced towards you as you walked to your place. A nod, and then he ignored you. He never said much, least of all to you. Yolanda had told him you were a cop. Chaz wasn’t as dumb as he seemed; he wouldn’t put his hand in the fire willingly. 

A shame. You’d like to drag his ass to jail. Yolanda didn’t talk about it, but it was obvious he treated her like crap. Explosive arguments weren’t likely to go unheard on a small floor. 

It wasn’t only you who had their suspicions that he hit her. 

It felt wrong, not just as a detective, but also on a moral level, to let this go on. What could one do, though, as just a neighbour? 

A door closed from behind. Your own lock clicked, and you glanced over your shoulder to find Chaz gone. _Good _— but the thought was soon replaced with guilt, and as you shuffled inside, you gave one last glance towards their apartment, instead worried about what happened in there behind closed doors, the things Yolanda had to endure time and time again, because, without help, she could do nothing when he inevitably slithered back. 

It started to make sense why vigilantes donned their masks and did what they did. Whether you agreed with them or not didn’t matter. At least they cared. At least they tried to do what was right. 

What had any of you done to stop Chaz? _Nothing._ Nothing at all. 

When Isha came, you prayed for Yolanda to be freed. 

* * *

One afternoon, you came across Hafez and Bill on the rooftop. The two sat perched on the parapet, sharing between them baklava that Hafez’s wife, Samira, had made — baklava that had meant to be for just Hafez, and you. Animated as he tended to be, Bill rambled on and on about some topic or other, and Hafez listened with genuine interest, too much interest that you surmised he must have banned Bill from his desk recently, and was feeling guilty about it. 

In the second that you considered returning downstairs, Bill noticed you, pausing for a moment in his speech to wave you over. Considering again just backing out, it wasn’t until Hafez also beckoned that you at last went to sit with them. But, much to your surprise, Bill didn’t continue his one-sided conversation. He instead zeroed in on you. 

“What’s up, [Y/L/N], huh? You’ve seemed upset recently. What’s got you down?” 

Never not a little guarded around Bill, you answered in a tone you hoped would deter him from interrogating further. “What do you mean?” 

But it was no use: Bill was as nosy as he was a decent interrogator. He coaxed, prodded, and simply annoyed you, never letting up with a constant barrage of, “Ah, come on,” or, “Something’s up, we can tell,” and “Just tell us, [Y/N]!” Until you could take it no more, and confided in them the truth. The actual truth, too. Bill happened to also be decent at catching onto lies. 

You’d never expect Hafez to listen if not with all his attention, respectful, silent; but that was not one of Bill’s strengths outside of the interrogation room. However, that day, his mouth remained shut. It came as so much of a surprise that, at times, you stopped, waiting for him to butt in, but when he didn’t, as if aware that you just weren’t finished unburdening yourself, you and Hafez would share a look of amazement. Bill didn’t speak at all, not until you’d gone quiet, and were so engrossed in fixing your hijab, fingers almost nervous, that you didn’t realise just how much lighter you now felt. 

And for once, in all the time you’d been at the GCPD, Bill Hale said something that didn’t get on your nerves. At all. 

“Something’s going on. You’re right.” 

He sniffed, scratched his cheek in thought. Wrinkled skin, skin that had seen decades more than you. 

“You gotta step in. I know it feels weird, or you feel like you might be sticking your nose in their business, unwanted. But look. This is a woman who’s been going through a lotta shit alone. If she doesn’t appreciate you intervening now, she will later. Or if she never does, whatever. At least you’ll have done the right thing. Find out if he _is _hitting her. And if he is, then fucking annihilate him.” 

You blinked. Hands stilled in their task; hijab more askew now than it had been before. 

Hafez was the first to respond, “Huh... I wouldn’t have expected that from you, Bill.” 

“What?” 

“Well...” 

Unable to explain without seeming rude, Hafez quietened. You took up the task. “You say some really shitty things about your ex-wives, you know.” 

Bill considered this a moment. When he spoke, it took him all but a few seconds to end his silence, and the world seemed right again. “Well,” he shrugged, and with no trace of bashfulness, as was his way, he said, “my marriages were lousy. And they were bitches during the divorces.” But then his demeanor shifted, and serious again, he assured, “I’ve said things to their faces that I’m not proud of, sure. Hitting someone, though — someone who loves you, too — that’s just evil. Punch ’em. Right in the face. Punch those abusers, I say.” 

Hafez clapped him on the shoulder with a small chuckle, “Eh, I’m not sure I’d fight violence with violence, my friend, but I appreciate your sentiment, Bill.” 

How Bill could be so backward and yet so aware all at once was beyond you. But you considered his words; a push, to do what was right. You looked at Bill for a moment, and forgot in that second to dislike him. What did the Quran say about forgiveness, after all? 

The door to the stairs creaked open. Dick came through, and the three of you watched him pause, as he too noticed your group. From afar, you couldn’t quite make out his words, but as he ended his call his lips seemed to read, “—Fred. Can’t talk right now—” what other words he shared into the phone lost to you three as he turned his back, before he approached where you sat. 

“Hey!” He smiled, so bright that the other two softened. His gaze shifted from Bill to Hafez, but seemed to linger on you a moment longer than the rest, as he asked, “What’s up?” 

“Not much,” Hafez answered, just as Bill announced, “[Y/N]’s gonna kill her neighbour!” 

“What?” The joking tone was not lost on him and he laughed, but there was a trace of confusion, and curiosity, in Dick’s eyes when he turned to look at you. 

Picking at the skin around a fingernail, you muttered, “I’m a terrorist, after all.” 

Bill barked out a laugh, and continued with his fun. “She’s going rogue. Vigilante.” 

Dick’s smile widened (but it didn’t quite reach his eyes). “Is that so? I believe vigilantism is illegal, [Y/N]. What are we supposed to do now that we know?” 

“Domestic abuse is also illegal,” Bill piped up. He stuffed a piece of baklava in his mouth and, dusting his hands off of the stickiness, said to the two men, “So! We’re all gonna turn our cheek, right. When this Chad—” 

“Chaz,” Hafez corrected. 

“—fucker, _whatever_, turns up dead... we got [Y/L/N]’s back. Capiche?” 

You raised a brow at him. “Gonna help me hide the body, old man? You suggested it — gotta get your hands dirty too.” 

Bill turned to you, mouth full of baklava. “_Yeah,_” he muffled out, and swallowed. “Name the time and place, [Y/L/N]. We got you.” 

* * *

Not much changed: Yolanda still said nothing about Chaz whenever you went down to the laundry room to find her. You’d started washing things that didn’t need to be washed, and although your coins were being eaten up in this endeavour, something else happened. 

Yolanda became your friend. 

Perhaps to her you were more of a friend than the acquaintance you’d accepted her as. It became obvious how much she valued this interaction as time went on; she brightened, laughed more, kept her front door open to hear if you were walking past in the corridor so she could come have a quick chat. Something that Chaz, moved in once more on a permanent level, didn’t seem to like. Not that that bothered you. 

But he’d close the front door sometimes, or come stand there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, ever the imposing figure, watching the two of you catch up. It got so irritating that you began to invite Yolanda into your apartment to be rid of him. At first it was awkward. This space was your own, and apart from Mrs Herrera down the corridor who’d popped over with food every now and again, you never entertained guests. But then, after a while, it wasn’t. 

The quick chats turned into hours of hanging out. Yolanda would sit in your room and read while you prayed. She learned what was halal, what wasn’t halal, and brought over dinner on nights she knew you were overworking, then left to tend to Chaz. 

It was the first time, in a long time, you’d connected with someone in Gotham outside of work. 

Eventually, Yolanda’s friendship became more important to you. And her silence on Chaz’s treatment, something which you still suspected was awful, felt more personal. Weeks, and she still said nothing. But all the while, Chaz grew increasingly frustrated. His usual nods in greeting turned to frowns. He started smoking inside the apartment so as not to see you. Arguments blew up. Yolanda dimmed; but she’d beam whenever she was with you, and she came over more often. 

It wasn’t until a month had passed, that the tension over-spilled. 

That night, returning from work, you saw Chaz outside Yolanda’s apartment. Door wide open, the aroma of cooking wafted from inside (Yolanda’s voice drifted, “Chaz, is [Y/N] back?” and you called out, “Yup! Come over whenever you’re free.”). Smoke curled from his lips. He stared. There was no nod, not even a glare; he watched you walk to your apartment, and still did so as you disappeared. 

A door slammed shut — Yolanda’s, you supposed. 

Setting about unpinning your hijab, you hummed a tune, walking here and there. The floorboards creaked under your weight. A crack, a thud — a thud... You stopped. 

The thud had not come from beneath your feet. 

You listened, and there again —_ THUD_. Louder this time, it was soon followed by the distinct sound of a scream. Muffled through the walls, it came again, but this was different: this time, it was the shrill sound of _pain_. 

A flood of assumptions crashed through your head; but one stood out above them all:_ it was from Yolanda’s apartment_. Not caring whether it was true or not, you stormed out into the corridor, forgetting in that moment the state of your hijab. It came loose, fluttered to the floor, the last of its pins now in your tightening grasp. 

Outside her apartment, it became more obvious where the screams were coming from. 

You struck the wood with a palm, a fist, in your panic forgetting that no one would answer. The sole person who would want to_ couldn’t_. The sound of another door opening was no concern to you, but when a familiar voice called, “He’ll never open it,” you stopped. Mrs Herrera peered out from around her front door, uncomfortable. Her fourteen-year-old grandson did the same. 

“You’ll have to break the door down,” he said. 

His grandmother soon put a stop to such suggestions, but the action-movie-fan was right. Maybe not about_ breaking _the door down — there were better techniques. 

You dropped to see the lock, taking two pins in your hands, letting go of the rest, and doing something that would surely make the whole precinct talk. Pick-locking didn’t come naturally to you; in fact, you were quite rusty; but at last there was a click, and Mrs Herrera’s grandson called out, “Go get him, detective!” 

Inside, something shattered. Further into the apartment Chaz’s voice bit out vile insults, Yolanda’s voice rising to meet them, throat choked, as if she were in tears. 

The insults soon stopped, replaced instead with shrieked pleas, “Get out! I _never _want to see you again! Get out! Get out! Get out!” 

Following the noise led you into the kitchenette. Stood amongst broken glass, the two faced each other, Yolanda’s eyes closed tight as she repeated those two words, up into the livid face of an approaching Chaz. 

His hand shot out to grab at her, and just as his fingers closed around her wrist, she screamed, and you, just as fast, charged him. 

One forceful shove was enough to lose his balance; caught by surprise, Chaz stumbled to the side and into the counter, the crunch of glass loud under his feet. Yolanda stopped screaming, opened her eyes, and all at once dropped to the floor. A wail escaped her throat — not sounding relieved, it almost sounded _ashamed_ — and she curled into a ball. 

Chaz’s gaze burned into you. It flitted for a moment to your head. You wondered why, but didn’t care. 

You stormed close, got up into his face, hissed, “Get the_ fuck _out.” 

Chaz’s jaw tensed, worked, teeth gnashing in utter frustration. Your hand clawed into his bicep, grip unrelenting as you pulled him out of the kitchenette. “If I ever see your face here again, if I hear you’ve been_ anywhere _near Yolanda... I’m throwing your fucking ass in jail, you hear me?” You pushed at his arm, and pointed towards the front door. “Now get out.” 

He did as you demanded. With one final glower, he was gone. 

Yolanda remained on the floor when you returned. Panic set in. Not caring about the shards, you knelt down, attempting to pull her up. She became limp, but opened her eyes, looked up at you with a tear-filled gaze. “I, I,” her bottom lip quivered, “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want you to think I’m weak.” 

You stopped. A moment passed. And then you pulled at her once more, incessant, until she allowed you to hold her in a tight embrace. “You’re not weak. You never have been.” 

Over time, she seemed to relax. 

“You were just alone. I’m sorry.” 

* * *

Hafez came to sit on the edge of your desk after Yolanda left. “Is that her?” 

“Yeah. That’s Yolanda.” You nodded to your computer. “She’s filing a restraining order.” 

Hafez gave a Hurrah, pumping his fist in the air. The commotion, which Bill soon joined, unable to be left out even from so far at his desk, drew the captain out of his office. His curious gaze turned to one of sternness, before he returned inside, Dick following out after with an amused grin. Brows raised, he approached, greeting Hafez in a side-hug as he nodded down at you conspiratorially. 

“So, did you guys dispose the body all right?” 

“No need.” A proud smile lit up your face, Yolanda’s courage softening your voice. “She kicked him out._ And _she’s getting a restraining order.” 

Dick nodded in admiration. For a moment, it was out of the look on your face. “Nice! Job well done. No murders to cover up.” 

A sheepish expression overcame your features and, turning to Hafez, the one who knew of your more rash actions a little better, you admitted, “I broke into their apartment, though.” 

“You what?” 

“Yeah. I broke in. Picked their lock. Do I repent for that?” 

“Hey!” Bill appeared from behind Dick. “She’s a vigilante after all,” he laughed, patting the top of your head — much to your displeasure. Noticing the captain watching out his window, he hurriedly returned to his desk. 

Hafez left (not before spending a good minute thinking over your question, then giving up), also mindful that the captain’s disappointment was growing, and so Dick remained. Lost in his thoughts, he rapped his fist against your desk. You left him to it, surprised to find no discomfort with having him around, even in silence. 

When he came to crouch down beside you, you stopped typing. Despite the space he kept between the two of you, Dick seemed closer — perhaps not in terms of physicality, but because of what he did for you in the face of Bill’s ignorance, what distances existed between you now felt bridged — too close that a little of your breath left your chest. 

Concern washed over his face. “This Chaz, is he dangerous?” 

You considered his question a moment, but the extent of Chaz’s danger to others, apart from his domestic violence towards Yolanda, was something you didn’t have the answer to. Your silence wasn’t the no Dick wanted, however. 

“Be careful, [Y/N].” Dick touched the side of your arm, and gave a smile, traces of anxiety in its warmth. “It’s not often men like this take being kicked out very kindly. Sometimes they respond with more violence.” He remained like this, almost as if humbling himself, only rising to his feet _after _he had said, “I have no doubt you can take care of yourself. But if you ever need anything, let me know.” 

Once, you might have just brushed that offer aside. You had grown restrained coming to Gotham. Aside from some officers, detectives, especially Hafez, or the captain, you kept everyone at an arm’s length. Because you felt like you _had _to. 

But not him. Never him. Even before now, when neither he nor you had extended a hand of friendship, and were just simple colleagues, you’d never felt like Dick had to be shut out. He was one of the few here you felt you could trust, without caution. 

You nodded up at him and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

* * *

A feeling soon settled in. At first you had no idea what it was. Just that it felt almost _sick._ Discomfort gnawed at your stomach; your breath caught in your throat. It developed over a week, each day growing more and more apparent. A shadow passed in the corner of your eye; a pair of feet followed too close at night. 

It was a feeling of being watched. 

You chalked it up to paranoia. You’d asked Yolanda if she’d noticed anything amiss since the restraining order was finalised, but she hadn’t. It had been a while since that night. Chaz was gone. Gone for good, this time — she held on to this hope, and in the following period learned to blossom, no longer in the shade, at last free under the sun. 

That feeling didn’t worsen, but nor did it abate. It remained as it was: in the back of your mind, whispering a warning. But Chaz was gone. He’d given up. Yolanda was free. There was nothing to worry about now. 

Nothing at all except picking up the pieces of your friend’s life. 

And so, you continued on. A few more days passed and still nothing happened, and that sensation became like white noise, something in the background you soon learned to ignore. Three people were aware of this: Hafez and your parents; and though Hafez made you promise to contact him if you had even the slightest suspicion that something was going to happen, you didn’t want to — with Samira nearing childbirth, that was a burden you couldn’t add to their lives. Prayers and God became a comfort you held on to. 

After all, hadn’t you always been cautious — and because of that, at times, paranoid? 

Yet, every now and again, the shadow returned. It was a silhouette, rather; it appeared, and then it was gone. You no longer walked home from the mosque with headphones in, even if you didn’t want to believe that something was wrong. 

_ Just in case, _you thought. There was no harm in being careful. 

Dick noticed you were tense one evening on the rooftop. The two of you were working late and had decided to take a coffee break. Leaning over the parapet, listening to the sounds of the city, he said nothing for some time. Although he was an extrovert, and nosier than many of his friends liked (though he intervened because he _cared _), he didn’t have the heart to pry, or even strike up conversation when you seemed so troubled; but when you sighed for the third time in a matter of just a few minutes, he could no longer keep quiet. 

“Are you all right, [Y/N]?” 

You reassured him that you were. But Dick didn’t seem all that convinced. You quietened, focused on the heat through your coffee cup. Then, with a humorous air, you admitted your paranoia — maybe it’s a jinn, you joked; but Dick neither pushed that it was indeed silly nerves, or that it wasn’t. He just turned gentle. 

“Text me whenever you’re going home. Walking, driving, doesn’t matter. And once you get back.” He smiled, and bumped your shoulder with his. “This is Gotham, after all. Can’t be too careful, right?” 

You didn’t want to bother him, but you had to admit that once you started this routine, you felt much better. Dick insisted you were no bother, and somehow, the two of you started calling when you walked home late in the weekend. Half the time you were silent, simply taking comfort in the fact that he was there; though not in person, you still felt safer than you had before. He’d sometimes be on a motorbike, other times a few other voices would sound from the distance — an outing with his brothers, he’d explain, or his friends from when he was a teen. He seemed a little distracted, almost always busy, but he never sounded burdened. It didn’t take long for this arrangement to lose its uncomfortable guilt. 

On a Sunday, you left the mosque a little later than usual. With an elder woman’s famed baklava in your hands to keep you occupied along the way, you decided not to call Dick. He’d been so kind, and though he’d finally convinced you to not feel bad about calling him, you didn’t have the heart to call so late, especially when you knew he was going to be with one of his old friends tonight. 

The verse in the Quran that you’d begun to memorise was all you needed to keep you company as you walked home, snacking on the dessert. You hummed it, stepping off the curb to cross the street. An old man walked past with a laugh — what he found amusing was unknown to you, but you smiled at him as you passed. Two cats chased each other into a dark alley. A clatter sounded from within. 

It was the turn of the season, fall on the brink. The wind blew a little stronger, cold enough for a shiver to crawl down your spine. You should’ve brought a sweater, you realised, but it was too late to fret over that now. You closed the container and tucked it inside your backpack, sifted around for your phone inside — a footfall struck the concrete loud from behind — and opened the first text, from Yolanda, leaving Dick’s for after — when a yell caught your attention. 

A man’s form registered at a mere glance. Over your shoulder, the scarf over the bottom of his face was his most prominent feature. 

He shot forward, screamed. 

The wind caught one end of the hijab before the stranger did too. 

Let the moon be peaceful;_ he _would not. 

Time slowed. In the few seconds that this man grasped — _pulled _at — your hijab, his harshness pushing pins into your scalp, words of hatred mixing in the air (things you’d never repeat, disgusting insults towards your hijab, towards you as a woman), your own scream of, “What the _fuck!”_ just as loud, the both of you missed the figure that descended upon him. 

He was on the ground before you knew it. The impact caused you to lose your balance as well. Concrete scraped the heels of your palms. 

The sound of fists colliding with bone filled the air. 

A flash of blue was all you saw at first. The black of their suit bled into the gloom. 

If it weren’t for the streetlights, you might not have made sense of this newcomer’s shape so soon. 

Not once did he speak, he just struck, and struck, and struck, until the assailant’s cries stopped and he fell unconscious. 

The suited man withdrew. For a moment, he seemed dazed. He stumbled to his feet, breaths laboured, though not from the physical exertion; when his gaze hesitated to look upon you, it became all the more heavier. 

Gratitude became embroiled in horror. You were no stranger to violence, but _this _outburst of fury... It frightened you. 

He was one of them, you realised. A_ vigilante_. 

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Voice augmented, there was no placing its owner. Though you could have no suspicions who this crime-fighter might be. 

One thing you could note was that, augmented or not, his voice had a gentleness that didn’t at all match his prior actions. 

He made to approach, but gentle voice or not, you still flinched backward. The red stain of blood stood out against the assailant’s forehead. You choked, struggled to your feet. When you stumbled, this vigilante rushed forward, and with one of those same hands that had beaten the other man into unconsciousness, he steadied you by the elbow, his gloved touch warm. 

“Is he dead?” you dared ask. Your voice came out a lot bolder than you expected — it sounded almost imperious. Not wanting to incur his wrath, you released yourself from his grip, and inched closer to the man on the ground. 

His face laid turned to the side; but, fearing the worst, you stopped. Unable to approach, you turned towards the silent vigilante, repeating the question with just as silent a gaze. 

Dark hair fell into his eyes — eyes, you weren’t sure from this distance, made harder to see in the dark, that looked deep blue. They flared now. You went still. 

“No.” He looked up at the moon, sighing. “No, I wouldn’t do that.” 

What trust you had left in him you decided to extend to his answer. You turned back to the body, stepping closer, close until you could peer over and down at his face. At first, you recognised nothing. There was a little blood on his forehead from his fall, and more that gushed from his broken nose. Red was a colour hard to ignore, more so if it’s blood. It soaked into the scarf around him, loose now. 

You crouched down and felt for a pulse. A sharp breath somewhere behind you gave the vigilante’s reaction to this. You tensed, but didn’t regret double-checking. 

He was alive, as he promised. 

Closer now, you pulled the body towards you to inspect. The man rolled onto his back. 

Shock stole your breath. 

A few seconds passed, and then his name fell from your lips. The vigilante came to crouch beside you, but his gaze was upon you, worried frown hidden beneath his mask. 

“Chaz,” you repeated. “It’s… _Fuck. _” You buried your face in your hands. It all made sense now. 

Maybe he hadn’t been stalking you all this time, it_ could _have just been paranoia most of it — but you hadn’tbeen wrong the _entire_ time. 

The insults made all the more sense now. Your hand went to your hijab, pulled loose, and remembered now the night he’d seen you without it, though then your hair had still been obscured beneath an underscarf — he’d wanted to strip you of that last shield you had, spitting in the face of your respect. Your religion, who you were, everything… All because the woman he’d mistreated for God knew how long had found salvation in your friendship. 

You had forgotten what it was to cry so freely like you did now. Anger, horror, hurt, shame, it all came out in a torrent. So you let yourself purge it all out in the form of tears, bringing your phone to your face with trembling hands, finding the number of a police officer on duty who you trusted and calling her. You told her what had happened, gave her a rough estimate of the location, all the while sobbing your heart out. She listened to it all and promised she’d be there in a few minutes. 

“I want, I want, I—” you coughed, “I want to bring him in my—myself.” 

“Sure, [Y/N], of course. I’ll be there soon. Hang tight, sweetie.” She ended the call. 

Another cough racked your throat but you straightened. The tumult of emotions were calming, and with a few more sobs, you stopped crying. 

An arm brushed yours. He was still here, you realised — the vigilante; a complete and utter stranger witnessing the breakdown of a hijabi detective in the middle of a not-as-unpopulated-as-they’d(you-and-he)-prefer street. You laughed, sniffling, as a woman tugged her girlfriend down another side street at the sight of you three. 

“Allah!” You wiped the tears from your cheeks. “What a night!” 

Silence followed, save for a few sniffles. After a while, you asked, “What’s your name?” 

He hesitated, but obliged. “Nightwing.” 

“Oh.” You looked at him. “I’ve heard of you. You were a part of, uh, what’s it called? The Teen Titans, right? Outside Gotham?” 

His smile was perceivable beneath the cut of his mask, warming the blues of his eyes. “That’s the one. I was, yes.” 

“Are you still a teen? I’ll have to take you home to your parents then.” 

The vigilante — Nightwing — chuckled. The waves of his hair stirred in the wind as he shook his head. It felt strange to see one up close: these people who took the law into their own hands… at times became symbols, and even you forgot that they were just that — people. 

“Can’t let you figure out my identity, ma’am. But… no. I’m not a kid.” His gaze turned on you then, lingering. You didn’t glance away either. His went to your hijab. “If… If it’s not inappropriate, I could help.” He nodded towards it, “Help fix your scarf.” 

No words came to you. Silent, you just leaned closer. Not too close as it make things uncomfortable, but enough for him to reach out and find the pins in the fabric, readjust it, and put it back in place. For no longer than a second did his hands linger — but you felt their touch even after he’d withdrawn. 

“You should go,” you said all of a sudden. “Before the cops get here.” 

Nightwing’s eyes scrunched up, just a little. “_You’re _a cop.” 

“A grateful one.” You sniffled, shifting the backpack on your shoulders. “I’m not going to arrest you for saving my life. Biased as it is. The others… Well, it’s not the same case.” 

A comfortable silence fell over you two. 

The control you’d witnessed him lose remained unspoken between you, the shame he felt from it twisted in his chest, but he thought that he could sit here all night, forget his patrols, his duties, whatever else waited, just for a few more stolen moments in silence — if it was with you. 

He then whispered, “I can’t just leave you here.” 

A warmth blossomed in your chest. So these crime-fighters weren’t so bad after all. More selfless than most. 

You assessed the scrapes that now bled just a little across the heels of your palms, assuring softly, “I can take care of myself.” 

“I know.” 

Your gazes met. “Go,” you said, gentler than you had ever been. 

A gust of wind swelled the back of your abaya as you stood. It reminded him almost of Batman’s cape. And of wings. He stilled. His wings had been clipped once, and he’d never felt free — but was that because of his guardian, or because of himself. 

He was lost in the dark and he had no anchor to return him to safety. How long had he been like this? Even before he was sent away, before he lost faith in Batman? 

How did you do it? Laugh in the face of such hatred? Not fall victim to your own anger? 

You —_ you _… You were the warmest he’d felt around a person for some time, one of the few who’d brought him back to life, no forced smiles, no forced laughter. So unlikely, when you’d been there for so long, and he’d never thought of you as more than a good colleague. 

_ You— _

You held a hand out for him to take. 

“I just want you to be safe.” He said, almost as if in a dream. 

“I will be.” You smiled at him. “Now come on. Go save someone else’s life.” 

Nightwing hesitated. But he soon left — hand gripping yours to help him up, even if he didn’t need it. His patrol partner would be wondering where he was; he couldn’t ignore him forever. Like a shadow he was gone when you turned towards where he’d been. And in that moment, a minute before police sirens neared, you realised you hadn’t thanked him for what he’d done. 

* * *

The next morning, you had just one person in mind. Dick sat at his desk, seeming more tired than usual, but when you bounded up to him, he all but jumped from his seat. His words stumbled over themselves: were you okay, he’d heard about what happened, the captain wanted to press charges, were you hurt, why didn’t you call him that night, didn’t you know you could call him whenever, did you want to go home for the day—

You shoved half a cupcake into his hands. “Dear god, Richard, chill.” You perched yourself on his desk, just like Hafez and Bill did at yours. “This is for the other day.” 

Dick stared at you — unblinking. 

“You know. When you helped me with Bill.” At this, he seemed to relax. “Thank you, Dick.” 

“Ah.” Dick cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, oh no, no worries.”

You smiled, but it waned. Shifting on the desk, you glanced down in shame, scratching at one of your scabs. “Look, Dick… Last night,” you looked up at him with a frown, “someone saved me. Someone who I don’t think I will ever see again. And I never thanked them.” A breath left you involuntarily, heavy from your lips. You softened. “I… can be tough. But I’m not ungrateful. I should have thanked you a long, long time ago.”

Before he could protest, you held your half of the cupcake out to be cheersed with. “Anyway! To Gotham,” you beamed.

The usual cheer Dickhad reappeared — he smiled, and repeated the sentiment, bumping his half of Yolanda’s cupcake against yours. 

For the first time, he allowed his expression to soften, to look at you as he’d grown to feel over a long time. As soft as he’d dared look at you that night under his mask, in the dark. 

“And to you,” he added. 

**Author's Note:**

> throwing fists in situations is not something i condone. peace may be hard to come by in our world at times, but it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to cultivate it whenever we can.
> 
> anyway, different cultures and different religions are not to be tolerated, they are to be respected.
> 
> lots of love, angels. xx


End file.
